"You sold me for five million," Colette said under her breath as she forced the old nightmare down and stepped off the plane.
"Colette? Is that really you?" a voice called. A group of half a dozen fans swiveled, phones up. Cameras clicked.
"Stay right there," a security man ordered. He smelled like aftershave and power. He didn't know her name.
Bethany Castro floated through the crowd like a practiced tide, wearing a smile built for headlines. "Thank you, everyone," Bethany said, blowing a kiss. "See you at the premiere."
"You're so pretty!" a teen screamed. "Can I get a selfie?"
"Of course," Bethany said, taking a phone. She laughed naturally, touched the fan's arm, and then, off to a private ear, she said, "Five million for that mess was the smartest move."
Colette's fingers moved without thinking. Her locked phone recorded the sound. She kept walking.
"Did you hear her?" a woman beside Colette whispered into her vlog camera. "Bethany just said she spent five million on—on what?"
"She probably meant a campaign," the woman guessed.
"No, she didn't," Colette told herself. She counted names in her head without slowing: Karsyn Floyd. Cody Harrison. Cornelius Moreau. Dates attached like weights: summer, July, the night of the blackout. Three breathing seconds. She swallowed.
"Everything okay?" the security man asked, noticing her face.
"I'll be fine," Colette said. Her voice was small, edged with a steel she kept folded tight.
Bethany's assistant hustled
